


Son Of A Bitch

by Molrowing



Category: American Horror Story: Coven, True Detective
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Multi, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molrowing/pseuds/Molrowing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt over on the kink meme:</p><p>"Being the male son of the supreme is not easy especially when you keep having visions that you are not supposed to have..."</p><p>Rust Cohle's absent mother is none other than absent Supreme Fiona Goode. It's really not that surprising, when you think about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Tags, warnings and possibly rating to be updated as we go. This story will skip around time-periods as necessary. Broadly follows True Detective canon until 2012 and then AHS:Coven from that point. THERE WILL BE SLASH. AND POSSIBLY FEMMESLASH LATER, HAVEN'T DECIDED YET.
> 
> Much thanks to dancinguniverse for the beta.

2012

Marty is sitting in his wheelchair just inside Rust’s room. This is his fourth visit in two days and Rust has yet to be conscious. The nurses aren’t worried. Marty isn’t worried either, but there is something that compels him to come in when he wheels himself past the room. When Rust does come to, he won’t tell him that he’s been checking in on him. It’s a man thing.

As he goes to sip his drink, he realises that there’s someone in the doorway behind him. It’s real difficult to glance over his shoulder like this, but when he hears her clearing her throat, Marty knows it’s a woman. For a brief moment, he entertains the possibility that it might be Laurie; Maggie just doesn’t sound like that. He swivels the chair and catches the gaze of a woman he doesn’t recognise. If he had to guess, he’d say she is in her early sixties but she dresses several decades younger, all in black. She has blonde hair, well styled, but thinning. As he takes this all in, her gaze leaves his, falling instead on Rust.

“Dear Lord, what has he been doing with his hair? First thing’s first, that’s going to need dealing with.” She reaches into her black leather bag and draws out a packet of lady’s cigarettes. She puts one in her mouth and lights it in a fashion that Marty can only describe as elegant.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to-” Marty trails off as she gives him the evil eye. He’s had stares like that before. He's seen all manner of murderers and monsters. This is the first time since the baby in the microwave that he's shuddered. “You know what, I don’t think Rust’d mind.” She pulls up a chair next to the bed, setting her bag down on the floor. The way she looks Rust up and down, inspecting the damage with the keen, unwavering eye, reminds Marty of a jeweller.

Half of Marty wants to wheel himself back to his room and forget he ever saw her but just a fraction more is far too nosy about who she is. She’s too old to be Rust’s ex-wife, unless there was a lot more to that than Rust had ever let on.

“You must be Detective Hart.” When she turns to look at Marty again, she’s smiling the way Maggie used to smile at him when they first got together. It's like he’s the most handsome man she’s ever seen. He knows it’s an act, but it still goes straight to Marty’s groin. “Do you mind if I call you Marty? Rust always does.”

It’s a moment or two before Marty realises his mouth is open and he’s just blinking at her. “No, no I don’t.”

She takes a long, slow drag, then tips her head back and expels the jet towards the ceiling. That’s the last of the cigarette, so she deposits the butt in the vase with the rest of the ash. “How dreadfully rude of me, you must be wondering who I am, Marty.” She extends a gloved hand towards him, which Marty grips for a brief moment. “My name’s Fiona Goode. I’m Rust’s mother.”

Before Marty can stop himself, a whistle escapes his mouth. He lowers his gaze. “Sorry – I just… You must have had Rust real young.”

“You sure know how to give a backhanded compliment, don’t you Marty?” Fiona leans in to examine Rust’s face. It’s still pretty bruised and gaunt as hell, but hell, Rust was gaunt before. “Well, yes, but not quite so young as you may think.” She brushes a stray hair out of Rust’s face in a manner that's not quite affectionate.

Try as he might, Marty just cannot seem to find his tongue. Marty thinks he might know where Rust gets it all from, although, it seems to work better on Fiona.

They sit in silence for several minutes. Fiona looks at Rust and Marty alternates between looking at Fiona and out of the window, before Fiona turns to him again. “I don’t mean to be rude, Marty, but I was hoping for a few minutes alone with my son.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Marty says before wheeling himself back to his room a little faster than he’s done before. He can’t help it. Perhaps it’s the feeling that he shouldn’t be a little bit attracted to his partner’s mother, but it feels like something else. Marty never had much of a conscience when it came to sex.

It’s funny, but after Fiona’s visit, Rust seems to mend faster than people were expecting. He’s conscious and giving Marty the middle finger by the following evening. The day after that, Marty gets discharged. Rust learns to wheel himself around, defying nurses, doctors and all possible rules. Three days after that, Marty’s holding him up as he hobbles to freedom across the parking lot.

Marty lets slip that he’s seen Rust’s mother almost a week later. Rust lets out a disapproving grunt in response. It could have been pain, seeing as Marty was seeing to his stitches at the time. Either way, she isn't mentioned again for some time.


	2. Domestic Warfare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for lack of AHS: Coven in this chapter. Coming in chapter 3, I promise. Thanks to dancinguniverse for the edits.

1993

When bikers get mellowed out on pot, they talk about their families. They talk about the babies they never intended; the uncles that gave them their first look at an engine. Mothers. Ginger waxes lyrical about his mama’s apple pie. Bikers all seem to have home-making mothers. Young and knocked about more often than not, but home-makers.

Not Crash though. Crash grew up in the system. Crash was abandoned on a doorstep.

 

2013

A year passes. 

Rust keeps living with Marty, an unspoken agreement that neither of them is in the right mind to be living alone. Rust sleeps on the sofa-bed, not wanting to force Marty to buy more furniture. He has never been much of a furniture guy anyway. While he heals, he starts flipping through Marty’s PI files for something to do. It’s easy enough to keep doing that once the stitches come out, once he stops needing enough pain medication to kill a bull.

They even acquire a cat. It starts out as a stray sniffing around their neighbourhood. Then it becomes particularly attached to their front door. Marty isn’t able to figure out why until he gets up in the night to piss and finds Rust sitting out there smoking and petting the damn thing. They don’t get around to naming her, but she starts sleeping inside their house and they start feeding her.

Rust sobers up… ish. He cuts his hair and gets rid of that god-awful moustache.

Marty takes a case from a concerned father whose daughter is coming home way past her curfew more nights than not. She has become secretive. Marty sympathises. It’s not surprising.

When they meet him in a diner, he shows them a picture of a plain, meek looking girl. Marty was expecting piercings and crazy haircuts; a punk or a goth, perhaps. This girl looks fresh out of church. Their client has large, emphatic hands. He’s wearing a business suit that’s a little tight around the middle. His eyebrows are thick and dark, knotting together with great frequency.

It’s not until they’re driving home afterwards that Rust speaks. Marty has been throwing ideas out there, trying to get anything from Rust. Drugs? Maybe a paedophile?

“She’s a lesbian,” Rust says in a calm tone, gazing out of the window. He has his face propped up on his knuckles. The fingers on his other hand are rubbing against one another the way he does when he want a cigarette but needs to buy more. “Lesbian with a girlfriend. Knew it straight away.”

Marty frowns. “Kept that to yourself. It ain’t like you. Should’ve told the old man, if it were that simple.”

Rust turns to face Marty, frowning back in response. “And have him put her in the hospital? He already beats her.” His expression is almost pained. It’s strange, he’s never looked that way at a crime scene, not even Dora Lange’s. “I’ve got no sympathy for a man who treats his kid like that.”

Marty’s hands slacken on the steering wheel, his eyes replicating Rust’s look. Rust never knew too much about all the trouble with Audrey, but it feels like a punch to his stomach. “Just how the fuck do you know that?” he shoots back, but feels dirty, like he’s defending the devil.

““I don’t have any proof yet,” Rusts says, slumping back against the window.

“See, what’d I tell you about assumptions?” They sit in silence for the rest of the journey home; it’s only five minutes.

Sure enough, Rust does prove it. Rust goes on to plant a kilogram of cocaine in the fucker’s office and give the cops an anonymous tip. It’s effective. They watch from the car in a nearby parking-lot. Rust smiles, lighting a victorious cigarette. They have the radio on on the way back, bluegrass beating out of the speakers. If this were a comic book, Marty just knows Rust would be wearing spandex and kicking the crap out of muggers.

They make it home fine. Marty’s making sandwiches for the two of them, having an argument with the cat when it happens. “It’s not for you,” he grumbles, pushing the cat away with his leg. “Goddamit, I said it’s not for you.” She jumps up on the counter and steals a piece of bread. “You, missy, are an asshole.”

That’s when the first bullet comes in through the window, burying itself in the wall just shy of Marty’s head. “What the-”

Rust hits the deck in time to avoid a storm of fire aimed in his direction. He tugs Marty down as well, calm under pressure, as always. “STAY DOWN UNTIL THEY HAVE TO RELOAD,” he shouts over the noise. Marty’s not dealt with a firefight in ten years and his training is taking a little while to come back to him. The cat skitters into the bedroom and under the bed, bread still in her mouth.

The two of them move on their stomachs after her. The window in the bedroom looks onto the back, so it offers decent shelter, seeing as the gunfire is coming from the front. Marty roots through the bedside table until he finds his gun. “See, this is why I said you should get a shotgun,” Rust quips.

“What, you have a premonition or something? Jesus Christ, who the fuck is this?” Marty racks his brain, but its difficult with all the noise. “Yellow King?”

“Doubt it,” Rust says. The gunfire subsides for a few moments, which gives them enough time to take up position under a window in the kitchen. Rust peers out for a moment before ducking back inside. “Nope. You got a decent shot if you work quick.”

There are two gunmen. One of them is stupider than the other, reloading his weapon without cover. Marty fires two shots through the broken window. One hits him in the shin, the other splatters the back of his head all over the side of their truck. His partner climbs in and drives off, unprepared for any serious resistance. He leaves the corpse on the road.

“Shit,” Marty says, standing up. He lets out a groan. He’s not injured, well, there’s the bruises from hitting the floor too fast, but it’s not a bullet hole. He puts his gun down on the kitchen counter and stares at Rust, a severe look on his face. Rust is so determined that it’s not Tuttle’s men, like he can tell just from looking at them. That’s the only people Marty can think of that might want to kill him. Come to think of it, it doesn’t make a lot of sense why they’d pick this moment. “Rust, what the fuck did you just get me into?” He watches Rust silently get his cigarettes out of his pocket, avoiding the question. 

Marty has been trying to quit smoking, but his willpower crumbles and he takes one from Rust’s packet when they’re offered to him. “Is it cartels again?” That doesn’t make much sense either. Not with a year on record where Rust has hardly been out of his sight.

“I can’t tell you,” Rust says after a few drags. “And I can’t stay here. It’s me they’re after, not you. I got a safehouse to go to.”

“Gimme some fucking credit man, I just killed a guy for you. You owe me some details” Marty says, rolling his eyes. It doesn’t feel like it, not when the blood and gore is fifty yards and a wall away from him. Maybe it’ll hit him when he heads out, but he’s not ready to do that yet. His joints aren’t as young as they used to be and they ache from crawling around on the floor. “Wherever you’re going, you ain’t leaving me behind. Not with a wrecked apartment and a corpse on my doorstep.” The nicotine counteracts the adrenalin pounding in his veins, bit by bit. There’s no coil of dread in Marty’s stomach, which is odd. If anything, it feels like getting off a rollercoaster. Marty’s a little bit of a closet thrill-seeker.

After a few minutes, the cat emerges from the bedroom. She hisses at them and shows her displeasure by urinating behind the television. Neither Rust nor Marty bats an eyelid, content to chain smoke the rest of the packet in silence.

Once they’ve finished, Rust digs out a sports bag and throws it at Marty. He has one of his own into which he’s shoving the small collection of clothes, almost everything wife beaters, that he owns. “Go on then, pack your shit,” he calls over his shoulder. “You said you were coming, didn’t you?”

“Ain’t you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Marty says, not as surprised as he ought to be.

“I’ll tell you when we get to New Orleans.”


End file.
